


The Second Tree

by OneBlueUmbrella (bigblueboxat221b)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Decorations, Christmas Tree, M/M, Mycroft To The Rescue, POV Greg, lonely Greg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:40:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28026396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/OneBlueUmbrella
Summary: The crack of ice in someone’s drink startled Greg and he glanced over, a rush of embarrassment that he’d been ignoring Mycroft filling his cheeks.“If I might ask,” Mycroft said, his voice as quiet and tentative as Greg could remember hearing, “you appear unsettled this evening.”Greg returned his level gaze for three long, slow breaths. Mycroft was offering something new here; a direction their conversations did not normally take. He could take the opportunity or deny it.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 26
Kudos: 203
Collections: Mystrade Holiday 2020





	The Second Tree

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bookjunkiecat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/gifts).



In the moment, Greg wasn’t aware of its significance. It was only on reflection he realised that was the moment it started.

Mycroft’s indrawn breath was sharp, but he didn’t speak immediately. Greg was only half paying attention; he knew he was being moody but the weeks of holding it in were wearing on his patience and he could feel the holes appearing.

_Only three more days._

The crack of ice in someone’s drink startled Greg and he glanced over, a rush of embarrassment that he’d been ignoring Mycroft filling his cheeks.

“If I might ask,” Mycroft said, his voice as quiet and tentative as Greg could remember hearing, “you appear unsettled this evening.”

Greg returned his level gaze for three long, slow breaths. Mycroft was offering something new here; a direction their conversations did not normally take. He could take the opportunity or deny it.

“Sorry,” Greg muttered, the cowardice keeping heat in his cheeks as he didn’t make a choice after all.

“Please, do not apologise,” Mycroft replied. He paused again, adding, “The Christmas season is not an easy one for many people.”

Greg nodded. He wasn’t surprised at all that Mycroft might have worked out at least a part of what was bothering him. So it was either too hard to work out entirely, or Mycroft was being patient and considerate. Which was both completely expected and astonishing. His experience with Mycroft was that these traits ran deep within him, yet his brother painted him in an entirely different light.

“I used to love Christmas,” Greg said. Having started, the words came more easily and he found himself explaining how his family would gather to set up their tree. Greg, being the oldest, was allowed to set the star on the top; it always reminded him of his brothers and sister to see a star at the top of a Christmas tree.

“That sounds fulfilling,” Mycroft said, his voice carefully void of judgement.

“Yeah,” Greg whispered. The lump in his throat took a second before he could talk past it. “We’ve drifted apart over the years, though. And my ex…she wasn’t really into Christmas.”

“You did not decorate together?” Mycroft asked.

“Nah, it wasn’t her thing,” Greg said. He could hear how strained his attempt at a casual tone sounded. Nowhere near as accepting as he’d hoped to sound.

Mycroft nodded, but the way he was pressing his lips together made it clear he was holding something back.

“What,” he said, the word flat. “Come on Mycroft, might as well ask. Or tell. Or whatever you’re not saying.”

The look he received was soft with exasperation. Greg wondered how many people Mycroft would bother sending that look.

“It seems to me,” Mycroft said, “and please don’t take this as a criticism of your relationship, but I understand that taking on some of the traditions of your partner’s family is the norm.”

Greg nodded. “It is,” he said. “Zoe wasn’t great at that part.”

This time is was a quiet hum, acknowledging Greg’s words without passing judgement.

“She wasn’t great at a lot of things,” Greg admitted. “And then I moved in a hurry,” he assumed Mycroft knew exactly what that had entailed, “and it wasn’t the same, buying Christmas decorations and hanging them myself.” He shrugged and tried for a slight grin, but it barely made it to the ends of his mouth before fading.

“And this has coloured your enjoyment of the season,” Mycroft said.

“Yeah,” Greg said. “It’s not about family anymore.”

“Given the chance you would enjoy the same rituals from your childhood?” Mycroft asked.

“Everyone’s so busy,” Greg said. “My brothers have families, and my sister’s abroad.” He sighed, the wish coming out before he could stop it. “Decorating the tree with people who think I’m special,” he said, the emotion of a small boy overtaking him for a moment. “It seems like a long time ago.”

Mycroft nodded, and they sank into the silence together. Greg had no idea what Mycroft was thinking; he was fighting against his own brain, really, trying to stop too many memories surfacing to be tainted with his pain.

The rest of the evening passed with few words, yet Greg left oddly comforted. Sitting in silence with someone was underrated, and the lack of platitudes was refreshing after so many years of people commenting on his broken marriage and ongoing singlehood.

+++

By Christmas Eve, Greg’s low mood had returned, dropping as fast as his teams’ joviality grew. Shutting himself in his office seemed like the best way to keep himself from ruining their fun. He didn’t want to be _that_ boss, or worse, _that_ grumpy old timer, but seeing how much fun everyone was having amid the garish green and red decorations set his teeth on edge. As he sat at his desk staring at budget reports, every time Greg blinked he caught a glimpse of his flat. This year was a new low – he hadn’t even bothered putting up the pre-decorated tree he’d spend £20 on a few years earlier. Things were tidy enough and he’d done the dishes before he left, so there was that. But you wouldn’t know it was Christmas. Even the family Christmas cards hadn’t made it as far as the fridge.

When his team was done for the day – he was on call tomorrow, but the next twelve hours stretched long and empty before him – Greg stopped to buy a takeaway, not even prepared to make the effort of defrosting a ready meal. He stared ahead as he walked home, resolutely refusing to be drawn in by buskers, window displays or charity collectors as he wound through people wandering along the street. He bumped into someone, muttering an apology before continuing on, hoping he’d make the next ten minutes without incident.

The steps were clear up to his door, and when the external door closed behind him Greg heave a sigh of relief. He rarely met anyone in the halls of his flat, though he was coming in at a far more reasonable hour than usual. A quick if insincere smile to the few people he passed; thank God they didn’t want to chat, and Greg was facing his own door.

Wait.

Was this his door? He frowned, wondering if he’d accidentally gone up an extra floor. He never decorated his door, and yet a huge, opulent wreath hung at eye level, gold berries winking in the weak light from the overhead bulb. Greg frowned, checking the number twice before cautiously trying his key in the lock. Whoever was doing this must have been there recently; it wouldn’t surprise Greg if the wreath was gone in the morning.

The key turned far more smoothly than usual, and Greg stepped inside, closing the door behind him automatically and dropping the bag with his supper on the floor. The key had worked which meant this was probably his flat, and yet the space was not quite familiar.

The air was warm, for starters, which it should only have been if he’d left the heater on. That was precluded by the smell of something fruity and spicy coming from further in, enticing him to take the few steps down the hall into his living room. It was more than fruit and spice; something woody too, like a memory from long ago Greg’s brain couldn’t quite grasp. He pulled off his coat and scarf, not even checking if he’d hung them up properly before stepping cautiously forward. Part of his brain pointed out that he probably should have called someone, whether for backup or just ‘call me back in an hour to check I’m okay’.

But he didn’t, and when he turned the corner and saw his living room, Greg’s mouth dropped open.

It looked like Christmas had exploded, but in a unified, tasteful way. Bunches of shiny fruit and berries and holly sat on the bookshelves. Garlands of greenery hung from the cornices, gold bells and berries decorating the points at which they were affixed to the walls. A small nativity scene sat before the television, the wooden figures hinting at human and animal without being garish about it.

And Mycroft Holmes, looking perfectly turned out and exquisitely nervous, stood in the far corner beside the biggest Christmas tree that would fit in Greg’s small flat. That explained the woody scent underpinning the baking ,then. The tree itself was perfect except that it was entirely bare. Greg frowned, then realised what was at Mycroft’s feet. Several large boxes, and the hint of tinsel hanging out from one box gave the game away.

“Mycroft?” Greg asked. “Are you…is that tree…it’s not decorated.”

“No,” Mycroft replied, then cleared his throat. “I realise this is an unprecedented and presumptive step, however…” his voice wavered before he continued. “I did not wish to stand by when you were so unsettled. Not when there was something I could do to perhaps ease that discomfort.”

Greg stared at him. “Have you been baking?” he asked, the question suddenly very important.

“I have,” Mycroft admitted. “Though the dough was prepared by someone else.” He gestured to the kitchen bench, separating the space from the living room. “I hope the result is acceptable.”

A plate of gingerbread and mince pies sat ready. Greg stepped closer, realising the plate was decorated with a pattern of tiny Christmas trees. The details, he marvelled, turning back to Mycroft.

“And this?” he asked, waving one arm at the tree. “Where on earth did you get such a big tree so late?”

Mycroft’s cheeks pinked, a rich deep colour Greg had never seen on him before. “Such a feat was beyond me,” he admitted. “So I brought the tree from my own entranceway.”

Greg blinked. “You brought your own Christmas tree to my flat?” he asked.

“The main tree remains in my home,” Mycroft told him. “This is the second tree.”

“The second tree,” Greg repeated. “How many trees are we talking overall?”

Mycroft chose to ignore that question. “This tree was visible as the lift opened into my hallway.”

Greg nodded, biting back the ghost of a smile. “You have more than one Christmas tree?” he asked.

“I do,” Mycroft said calmly, some of the pink fading as he met Greg’s eyes. “I find the sight comforting.”

“Okay,” Greg said. “I’m still not sure I understand quite why, though.” He winced. “Not that I’m not…I mean, this is a lot, and you certainly didn’t need to make such an effort, but…” he sighed, hoping his jumble of words was enough to make Mycroft understand what he was saying.

“I found myself reflecting extensively on our conversation from the previous evening,” Mycroft said. “And as I said earlier, I could not let you continue in such a way. Not at Christmas.”

“Yes, but why?” Greg asked. His shock was somewhat wearing off, and his professional radar was buzzing. Mycroft was repeating himself, and he was almost answering the question. Almost, but not quite, and the air of avoidance was growing as Greg felt his gaze grow sharper. Without meaning to, his brain came up with a solution.

It was ridiculous.

Tentatively, Greg tested it, reversing their roles. Would he act the same? Would his fondness for Mycroft, pressed aside for so long, hardly acknowledged until recently when he was too lonely not to wonder about possibilities, lead him to the same actions?

The answer was an overwhelming yes.

Swallowing, Greg stepped forward. “Mycroft,” he said, voice steady, “what part of what I said do you remember the most?”

It was an oblique question, designed to be the first in a series to approach his goal in stages. From the tightening of Mycroft’s shoulders he could tell what Greg was doing. It might have worked in his favour, Greg wasn’t sure, but either way, Mycroft did at least answer him.

“You remembered decorating your tree.”

Greg nodded, eyes flickering around the room. Everything was done, everything perfect – except the tree. He’d waited for Greg to come back and decorate.

“So you left it for me to decorate?” Greg asked.

Mycroft opened his mouth but hesitated before answering. “Yes and no,” he said, and something in his tone told Greg he would continue.

“You expressed a wish to decorate your tree with someone who thinks you’re special,” Mycroft said.

For a long ridiculous second, Greg wondered if Mycroft had brought his family here. He almost turned to his bedroom door – the only place they could be hiding – but Mycroft’s eyes held him.

“Oh.”

The meaning sneaked up on him. _Mycroft thinks you’re special._ Despite the fact that he’d decided this was the most likely scenario, having it confirmed – even if only by the expression in Mycroft’s eyes – forced the sound from Greg.

“And that’s…you?” Greg asked, the words far more difficult to shape than the involuntary sound he’d just made.

“It is,” Mycroft replied. “I have no expectations of you reciprocating, nor of anything beyond this evening decorating your tree.”

“My tree?” Greg repeated.

“If you wish,” Mycroft replied.

“And is that the only thing that could be mine?” Greg asked, emboldened by Mycroft’s words.

“It is not,” Mycroft said. “If you wish.”

Greg stepped forward, though his eye was caught by something resting on top of the television. He stretched for the sprig of mistletoe, reaching up to press it into the blue tack above the television. The Arsenal premiership poster was long gone, and he’d never gotten around to cleaning the wall properly.

“It’s not quite above our heads,” he said, “but if there’s,” his courage failed him, “something that could be mine while I’m standing here, I’d…that would be…yeah.”

Mycroft raised one eyebrow, even as he stepped close enough to make Greg catch his breath in his throat. “So cleverly spoken,” he murmured, the words warm and fond.

Greg rolled his eyes, affection pooling in his belly. “Do I really need words right now?” he countered, his eyes dropping to Mycroft’s mouth. A shiver ran along his arms, set in motion by Mycroft’s lips parting.

“No,” Mycroft said, the word ghosting along Greg’s skin before Mycroft’s mouth chased it, pressing more firmly than Greg anticipated.

 _He really wants this_.

The thought was irrational, given all the evidence before it, but it still made Greg gasp to feel such a physical response. Mycroft took advantage, pressing forward, his hands on Greg’s chest as he leaned further, chasing Greg with an edge of desperation.

A flash of understanding as Greg tried to pull back, his head reeling. Mycroft chased again for a moment then pulled back, his fingers pressed into Greg’s chest until they too retreated.

“Wait,” Greg said, his voice breaking. “I don’t mean…wait.”

“I want…not just for now,” Greg said, the words still awkward in his mouth. He took a deep breath. “I’d like to take you out,” he said. “On a proper date.”

Mycroft blinked. “A date?” he whispered.

“Yeah,” Greg replied. He smiled. “It’s what you do with a special person.”

Watching Mycroft’s face change was fascinating as understanding bloomed, and Greg felt Mycroft’s smile grow as it pressed against his mouth. They had plenty of time to decorate the tree.

Together.


End file.
